


that's what I thought

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [154]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e03 Bloodlust, Face-Fucking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 07:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14420043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: Gordon’s already hard when Dean pulls him out, silk soft skin so hot to touch, thick enough his jaw’s going to ache and long enough to choke on. Dean feels spit pool under his tongue and he licks his lips.There’s a breathy laugh above him, “Been watching you do that all night.”





	that's what I thought

Dean shoulders the bathroom door open and does not stumble on his way over to a truly grimy urinal. He kind of doesn’t even want to touch the wall but he braces one hand on it anyway to steady himself. There’s a stripe along the wall around the top of the urinals from dirty hands. But hey, there’s dried piss and a smudge of old vomit on the floor too.

It’s edging on painful how bad Dean’s needed to piss, and he holds in a groan as he let’s go. There’s been a few shots in there with the beers, one story tipping into another as more drinks come and Dean’s already said enough girly shit for the night, but Gordon listens and he watches like he understands and he shares things back to Dean that you shouldn’t tell a stranger.

It worries Dean a little, how unguarded he is. But with someone in the life, it’s nice to feel like he can know somebody, and be known.

Shaking, he tucks it in and zips up and scowls at the sink when he finds out there’s no soap. Swiping his hands on his jeans, Dean straightens his jacket and steps into the hallway. Gordon’s not quite hovering at the end of the hallway, making his way down and nudging Dean towards the back door.

Immediately, Dean’s hand goes to the gun in the back of his jeans, unsure if it’s a human or non-human threat that has Gordon corraling him out to the narrow alleway behind the bar. The door open ups a few feet away from a dumpster, and Dean finds himself nestled between it and the swing of the door.

He’s still tense when Gordon says, “Relax, nothing’s after us.”

“Why’re we out here then…” Dean trails off when Gordon takes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out.

Dean used to smoke a few packs when he was alone, and new to being alone, but he figured out that the drinking was enough of a habit for him to keep up with.

Still, after Gordon’s taken a drag he offers the cigarette to Dean. He doesn’t offer to light a new one for Dean. He hands the one he’s smoking over. Dean nods a ‘thanks’ and takes a drag, savoring it, leaning back against the wall, before passing it back.

There’s a dim, naked lightbulb above the back door, weak against Gordon’s dark skin like it’s all sucked up into him. He’s steady, and Dean wonders how much he normally drinks. He reminds Dean of the men his dad used to know. From here and there, when a hunt brought them together. Readying weapons together in silence, drinking even before a hunt like it could blunt any of the horror, men who were hard and steady. The kind of men Dean tried to emulate. Still tries, he thinks bitterly.

Gordon passes him the cigarette, fingers brushing, and it’s odd how quiet they’re being out here alone when they had so much to say inside.

“You know,” Gordon says, tipping his chin up as he slants his head towards the end of the alley, takes the cigarette back and lets it hang between his lips, “I’m a hardass when it comes to hunting, to getting the job done,” he takes the cigarette between two fingers but instead of passing it he steps close enough that the toes of his boots hit Dean’s and he looks square at him, lips moving darkly in the faint light, “But I’m not as… conventional as older hunters.”

Lifting a hand up, the one holding the cigarette, Gordon drags a thumb against Dean’s lip, eyes watching his. Dean angles his head, catches the end of the cigarette and pulls smoke into his lungs, breathes it out his nose as he closes his lips lightly around Gordon’s thumb.

There’s the softest grunt and Gordon says, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He drops the cigarette on the dirty alley ground and sweeps his hand back to span Dean’s nape, fingers brushing up through soft hair. Dean shivers, brick of the building cold against his back, Gordon warm stepping closer to his front, penned in and his heart rate kicks up with long trained uncertainty.

“What did you think?” Dean asks.

“I see the way you look at me.” Gordon states plainly.

Maybe Dean’s licked his lips a few too many times as they talked, stared too much at Gordon’s own mouth, flushed harder than he should of for the drinks.

“Ought to be careful,” Gordon says, “Coul get yourself in trouble looking like that.”

He jerks from Gordon’s touch, narrows his eyes. Too many times he’s been told that how he looks is justification enough for trouble.

“Fuck you,” he drawls. Dean isn’t sure if this is going where he wants it to go.

“Hey,” Gordon sounds almost soothing, “I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve had a lot of time, and a lot of trouble, to get to know how to hide, how to tell who else is hiding. That’s all.”

A hand settles on Dean’s hip, pushing gently, warm. And Gordon is close enough that if Dean shoves off the wall their hips brush and whatever Gordon is saying his dick is definitely hard.

Something animal and hot and wanting curls inside Dean. He moans as Gordon’s hand slides down his back to the dip and pulls him closer, other hand sneaking under his shirt, fingers callous-rough and spidering out across his skin. Dean reaches an arm over Gordon’s shoulder, closes the circle with his other hand settling on a firm bicep. He almost expects a kiss for how close they are, almost aches for the intimacy and knowing of it, but instead Gordon nudges his jaw against Dean, angles his head aside, nips at the lobe of his ear.

Dean doesn’t manage to close his mouth on a guttural whine, head dizzy with alcohol and yearning. He’s been wanting Gordon all night, but he’s used to the sort of wanting that he knows he’ll never get and it’s no use begging. So when it comes to him like this, it all gets untangled and pulled out and he chokes on it.

There’s a broad hand pushing on his shoulder and Dean goes down easy. His dick’s twitching in his jeans and some stupid little-boy part of him still wants to impress Gordon, and damn but is he impressive at this. Back to the wall, Dean leans against it, tugs on Gordon’s buckle as Gordon leans over him and braces a hand on the brick.

His head falls under the light, face cast in shadows. His free hand circles back around Dean’s head, fingers bristling his short hair, blunt nails scraping against his neck and Dean’s gut clenches hotly.

Gordon’s already hard when Dean pulls him out, silk soft skin so hot to touch, thick enough his jaw’s going to ache and long enough to choke on. Dean feels spit pool under his tongue and he licks his lips.

There’s a breathy laugh above him, “Been watching you do that all night.”

Dean hums, holds the shaft in one hand as he goes down with his mouth. He sucks the head onto his tongue, cradles it there, bobbing shallowly. Pumping with his hand, Dean moves his mouth down to spread his spit on it, pushes his tongue out past his lips and sucks back noisily.

Gordon moves his hips, testing a few times as Dean angles himself better, holds onto one of Gordon’s hips to keep steady, eylids fluttering shut and all he feels is the press of someone into him, hard and insistent and needing. With a hand cradling the back of his skull between him and the rough wall, Gordon fucks into his mouth with deeper, rougher thrusts and Dean moans around it. Spit dripping down his chin, acrid of bile in the bottom of his throat as he fights down his gag reflex, Dean softens into it.

Panting above him, Gordon makes his mouth ache as the heat of his own need pools heavy and low, and Dean has to hold on with both hands. The ashpalt under his knees is wet and sharp, and the night air bites when it moves, but sweat prickles at the back of his neck and the base of his spine.

Suddenly, Gordon pulls back and if Dean wasn’t holding on he might tip over, but Gordon’s got his dick in one hand as he pumps it and Dean stays slack jawed, mouth open and waiting as he looks up. The first hot splash streaks over one cheek, some spatters in his mouth, more drips over his nose onto his chin, and Dean laps his tongue out to catch the last of it.

“Damn.”

Gordon wrings his dick out, smears it over Dean’s lip before tucking it back in. Dean’s reaching for his own fly, his poor dick so hard and hurting, when he’s tugged up and pinned against the wall. Face still streaked, he rests his head back against the brick as Gordon gets a hand between them, into his jeans, squeezes tight and strokes him and Dean’s eyes roll back at the first touch.

Kicking one foot wider, Gordon wedges a thigh between Dean’s, leans weight against him, watches him intense and scrutinizing as he jacks Dean off in his own fucking pants. Hips rolling weakly, shaky and desperate, Dean clutches at Gordon’s arms and comes with his eyes squeezed shut and mouth open.

Gordon pulls back.

Dean’s heaving for breath, lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, buckles his belt again. His legs are still trembling and it’s pathetic, but fuck, if Sam wasn’t stewing in his own bitchfit back at the motel, Dean’d want to take Gordon back and see if he could get fucked cross-eyed.

Dean shivers again, and it’s not the cold, it’s the hard-edged calculating tone to Gordon’s voice when he says, several feet backed away and still watching, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”


End file.
